


The Traces We Leave Behind

by taxicab12



Series: more to me than you can dream [7]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Gen, I know so much of the point is to not be remembered, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, but they are remembered anyway, in ways they’ll never notice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taxicab12/pseuds/taxicab12
Summary: People die, and others are left behind. Even when the world fights it, human memory outlasts.A study of the people who remember each of them after they’ve died.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: more to me than you can dream [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878034
Comments: 18
Kudos: 225





	The Traces We Leave Behind

Dizzy lost the ability to breathe the instant she saw the form, the stupid piece of paper she had insisted on seeing with her own two eyes.

“You satisfied?” The woman before her said, crossing her arms. “You’re not even supposed to be seeing that.”

“This isn’t right,” she said.

She raised a brow. “What isn’t?”

“This date. That’s not possible.”

She snatched the page back. “And why not?”

“Because she lived through that. She survived. If she’s dead, she didn’t die then.”

“Paperwork says she did.” She filed it away, like it was nothing. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”

Dizzy nodded, each motion making her a little sick. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You absolutely do.”

It wasn’t right, she thought. It wasn’t possible. Nile survived a knife to the throat, how was it possible for the paperwork to get that wrong?

Where could she be?

Was she really...?

...

The man screamed. “You don’t love me!”

Booker fought that, tried to insist, tried to calm, but it was no use. He was sent away.

Two weeks later, there was no one left to scream.

...

The old widow and the priest spoke quietly. The doctor stood to the side, knowing his part in this had ended.

“You’ve always been so good to me,” the widow said, sitting up from where she lay to pat the priest’s cheek as if he were a young boy. “Such a nice young man.”

The priest had not been young for a long while now, but her indulged the old woman. “I’ve taken your confession,” he said. “I’m sorry to say there’s not much I can do now but wait.”

“Such a nice boy,” she said. “Like my Nicolò. He’s a good boy. You will look out for him, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said soothingly.

“A good boy. He’s going to be a priest too someday.”

“He’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.”

“A good boy,” she said.

The priest held her hand.

He and the doctor left the house together, hearts heavy as theirs often were.

“Who’s Nicolò?” The doctor asked. “She doesn’t have young children.”

“He was her son and a priest,” the priest said. “When the call came to defend the holy land, he went. He never came back. It’s been more than ten years since he left.”

“So, he’s dead then.”

“Maybe.”

The doctor nodded. “Maybe he met a girl, settled down, saw no reason to return. Maybe he’s still out there.”

“It’s a nice thought.”

They parted ways in silence.

...

The two men sat on the ground despite their old age. They weren’t strangers, but only barely, a remembered friendship from a childhood long passed.

“I have a wife,” the first man said. “Three sons and a daughter. It’s been a good life.”

“I never married,” the other said. “Just let the world take me where it would. I think it was enough.”

“Do you have no family now then?”

The man shook his head. “None.”

“What happened to that brother of yours?” He asked, unable to comprehend the idea. “Yusuf, right?”

“No idea,” he said. “When Jerusalem was under attack, he went to fight. He never came back.”

“He died?”

“Yusuf’s too clever to have gotten himself killed. I think he’s out there, somewhere.”

“What, ran off with a girl or something?”

“A  _ girl_?” The man smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”

...

The woman sat straight up in bed. 

“What is it?” The other woman asked, taking her hand.

“I dreamed of Andromache,” the first said.

“Who?”

“She was my friend, when we were young. I think she went away, I don’t... I don’t remember.”

“It’s alright,” the other woman said.

“It’s strange, how people you knew as a child also grow older as you do, even when you don’t see it.”

“Go back to sleep,” she said. “Dream of me.”

She smiled softly.

...

“I always thought we’d been forgotten,” Andy said, still staring at the newspapers and photographs Copley had collected. “Totally wiped away.”

“And you were okay with that?” Nile asked, quietly.

“People forget,” Joe said, when it was clear Andy wasn’t going to answer. “But the world remembers.”

“Some people must remember too.” Nicky smiled, pressing a kiss to Joe’s forehead. “We aren’t very forgettable.”

They laughed at that.

“Someone remembers,” Nicky insisted. “If nothing else, we remember.”

It, perhaps, was a slightly depressing thought, but it didn’t feel that way coming from him.

_ Someone _ remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> While all these people die at some point, obviously within their natural lifespans, there were people who remembered they existed and noticed their absence. This idea just wouldn’t leave me alone


End file.
